


The Evolution of Frank Grayson

by adayofjoy



Category: Bad Education (UK TV)
Genre: First Love, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adayofjoy/pseuds/adayofjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evolution of Frank's feelings for Stephen before the Christmas play. Frank attempts to deal with his onslaught of feelings for the school's resident gay kid and the realisation that he might be falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution of Frank Grayson

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone :) This is my first fic for the Bad Education fandom and I just love the Frank/Stephen pairing. They are so lovely and endearing (even Frank). Please comment and let me know what you think.

Frank Grayson was not a fucking poof.

He was big and he was strong. He didn’t take no shit from anybody. His dad was a complete wanker, beating him and his mum up and all, but he had taught Frank one thing from an early age: never let anybody see your weaknesses. The only way to do this was by using fear and intimidation to your advantage. This was easy when you knew how to throw a solid punch and were bigger than most kids your age.

But as Frank grew older and the other kids grew taller he had learned to rely on his quick thinking as well as his fists. He could single out another person’s insecurity from a mile away and use that weakness to bully them into submission. He used this skill against people who dared to question his authority and against bell ends like Wickers just for sheer satisfaction. In the world Frank grew up in you had to be hard and you had to be tough to stay on top. And Frank was never going to be at the bottom of the shit heap ever again.

But maintaining the appearance of being a ruthless bastard was fucking hard when you were secretly in love with the school’s resident poof.

He would never have taken any notice of him (that’s what he tells himself) if the bastard hadn’t gone and kicked Frank in the fucking head. Frank was too busy laughing his head off to notice the poof doing some kind of sophisticated karate turn. The next thing Frank knew, the poof’s foot had connected with Frank’s face. That was the first time he had underestimated the poof, but it wouldn’t be the last.

In the space of the same day the poof surprised him again. Gulliver had tried to force him to apologise after the teachers had pulled them apart. The poof raised his chin, flipped him the bird and then advised him with dark eyes blazing to ‘go swivel’. Frank had nearly laughed in shock as the poof then stormed out of the room with all the drama of a character from East Enders. The fire in the poof’s eyes had surprised him more then the fucking kick to the head. The next morning Frank woke up with an aching cock and the memory of those eyes on his mind. That’s when he started to get scared.

He had noticed him before. The poof attracted attention wherever he went. He had even dressed up as a bird in assembly once. But Frank had never bothered to look at him twice. Not until they had actually spoken.

Didn’t matter that he replayed their conversation in his head for a week after it happened. It was an unexpected reaction, innit? Why wouldn’t he be fucking thinking about it? He started to look for the poof when they passed in the halls, his ears automatically picking up on the sound of his voice. But he wasn’t a fucking poof himself.

He shagged girls, had done since he was fourteen. Not a big deal, just what a bloke was expected to do. Didn’t matter if lad’s mags didn’t excite him the way they were supposed to. Didn’t matter if he wasn’t always thinking about the girl he was with, so long as he was acting like a real bloke.

Over the next few weeks Frank did the best he could to keep the poof out of his head. He played footie and went out on the town and got pissed with his mates. He picked up a bird or two along the way, keeping up appearances and all.

He terrorised dipshits at school and made sure everyone knew that he was Frank-fucking-Grayson, school bully and badass motherfucker. No one messed with him and remained unscathed.

He kept well out of the way of the poof and his band of Special K mates. After about a month of avoiding him the dreams stopped. He no longer woke up covered in sweat, his heart racing and his cock aching. Frank was able to convince himself that it had just been a weird, temporary phase. He wasn’t bent.

He was doing a great job of ignoring the poof until that fucking football match.

The team was proper shit. Wickers was a clueless tosser and the rest of Special K made Frank look like David fucking Beckham by comparison. As a lifelong Westham and footie fan, this game was a proper embarrassment. He was the best player by far, but he knew his ball skills weren’t great. Frank was the best option the team had though as their only substitute player was the poof.

As if kicking Frank in the fucking face wasn’t enough of a shock, the poof managed to surprise him even more by turning out to be a fucking amazing football player. Frank felt his stomach twist as the poof raced down the field, expertly manoeuvring around the posh twats from the other team. His eyes were drawn to the defined muscles along the back of the poof’s legs and the way his legs seemed to go on forever. Frank couldn’t believe it when he almost won them the fucking game.

Frank couldn’t take his eyes off him as his whole face seemed to light up as he played. Then the poof had to go and do a round of fucking backflips, his long legs twirling and his body flexing and arching with ease. Frank had to look away before he got a fucking boner. He felt sick to his stomach.

This was very bad news. Football had always been one of the things that made Frank feel like a real bloke. He had always thought that gays only liked singing and dancing and glittery shit. But watching the way the poof moved on the pitch and the sheer joy on his face as he played made Frank wonder if he was wrong. The poof just kept surprising him.

Frank could no longer pretend that he didn’t notice him.

Frank listened for his chatter in the halls and couldn’t help but notice the way the poof walked, his long legs sashaying (God, maybe Frank was bent) down the hall like it was a fucking runway. He noticed the poof’s pierced ears, the way the studs caught the light when he turned his face towards the sun. He noticed his high cheekbones, which made his face look like a sculpture.

Frank couldn’t help but keep an eye out for the poof. He kept telling himself that it was something that would pass, like a dose of the flu or a stomach bug. Fat fucking chance.

Things only got worse with the elections. He wins by a landslide because he’s terrifying and the other candidates are tosspots. But the position gets given to some twat in a Spiderman costume and Pickwell is fucking livid. He doesn’t really care. He was only looking for a distraction beyond getting pissed and shagging birds, as if that could make him forget what was happening to him.

All of his efforts went to waste once he turned up at the election party with the intention of spiking the drinks.

Special K were dancing like nonces with Wickers in the middle, who was looking like a complete twat as per usual. There were a lot of people at the party getting pissed (thanks to him), making the room crowded and stuffy. He was getting ready to leave when the poof caught his eye. He had his tie undone and his shirt half unbuttoned, exposing his smooth, dark chest. Frank felt his heart start to thump wildly, a now familiar but no less terrifying sensation. The poof’s eyes were bright as he laughed and danced with the others. He was the best dancer by far and there was something fluid in the way that he moved that reminded Frank of the way he felt when he watched him do backflips at the football match. He did some kind of spin that made Frank feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

“What a faggot, eh?” some twat from the year below him commented, nudging him.

Frank felt a flare of rage build up inside him. This pulsing rage was a familiar feeling, but it was the first time in a long while that he had felt upset on somebody else’s behalf. He signalled to Darius who was hanging around the drinks table. One of the advantages of being Frank Grayson was that he didn’t need a reason to beat the shit out of someone. He had cultivated a reputation of terror, which now meant that any bloke in the school was fair game.

The twat’s smile froze on his face as he took in Frank’s furious expression. Darius and Frank started to drag him outside. Being able to use his fists helped to dull some of Frank’s anger, but not the fear that was now coursing steadily through his body.

Something had changed while he had watched the poof dance. No, that wasn’t right. That word didn’t feel right in his head anymore. It felt ugly. It didn’t fit. 

Stephen. It was a relief to allow himself to think of him by name. The total, blinding rage that had come over him when that wanker had dared to make fun of Stephen confirmed that something had shifted.

Something had changed for him as he watched Stephen dance. Stephen seemed to light up as he laughed and danced and joked around with his mates. He didn’t just look hot; he looked fucking beautiful. And that was beyond terrifying.

Then term ended and he tried to convince himself (again) that it had just been a phase. So what if he thought that Stephen was fit? Most people would. It didn’t mean that he was bent and it definitely didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.

He tried once more to distract himself with drinking and going out with his mates. He didn’t pick up any birds. He used to do it to make sure his mates knew he was a real bloke. He tried to make sure that everybody knew that Frank Grayson wasn’t to be messed with. Now he was too afraid that if he tried to get with a bird that he’d end up thinking of another face just to get it up. He was pathetic.

Then the break ended and the first event of the term was the fucking school swimming carnival. Not even tormenting Wickers could make Frank forget the sight of Stephen standing there in a pair of fucking speedos, all long brown limbs, broad shoulders and smooth, muscled legs. He had thought that Stephen was beautiful at the election party—God; he was turning into a soft tosser—, but as he watched Stephen standing there in a fucking swimsuit he couldn’t deny that he wanted him. It was only the sight of a shirtless Wickers and the fat kid standing there that stopped Frank from getting a fucking stiffy in front of the whole school.

He wasn’t sure how to move past this anymore.

Then Pickwell died and things got worse at home and his dad left again after beating the shit out of his mum, then beating the shit out of Frank for trying to get in between. He wasn’t coping. He was a real bloke. He was Frank-fucking-Grayson, after all. He never broke down. But Frank-fucking-Grayson was soft on the biggest queer in the school and cried in fucking Wicker’s arms when it all became too much. Frank was angry; this shouldn’t be happening to him.

He wanted to blame someone for what was happening to him; he wanted to make them pay. He wanted to hate Stephen, but he couldn’t. Frank kept trying to ignore him, but wherever he went, Stephen was there—smiling and laughing and lighting up the fucking room wherever he went, not even aware of the effect he was having on Frank.

He couldn’t help but watch him. Not like a fucking stalker or anything, but just to make sure he got on okay. That nobody was trying to do him any harm. But Frank knew that Stephen could probably handle himself pretty well if he had to. Those muscles could be used for more than just dancing. He had nearly knocked Frank out with a well-aimed kick to the face, after all. But he tried to watch out for Stephen anyway. It felt strange having someone else to look out for, someone other than himself. It felt good.

He tried not to watch Stephen when he was with his mates. He was terrified that one of them would see something in his expression and everyone would realise that he’d gone fucking soft.

So he watched him from a distance. He watched Stephen as he danced in the courtyard and as he walked down the halls. He watched Stephen as he laughed and messed around with that slag best mate of his, spending half an hour painting her nails different colours for her. He even snuck into a few of the school shows so he could watch Stephen dance without averting his eyes.

He knew that Stephen was an only child and he was close with his parents (lucky bastard). He knew that he liked video games and football, like Frank, but he also liked celebrity gossip, musicals, dancing, and acting.

He learned that Stephen wasn’t just fierce and uncompromising; he was also funny and warm. Somehow this made it all fucking worse. It was hard enough to ignore him when Frank had his face in his mind whenever his hand was down his trousers. He was even more difficult to ignore when Frank dreamt about the bastard’s fucking laugh in his sleep.

It was fucking terrifying the effect the bastard could have on Frank when they had barely spoken to each other. He memorised little bits of information about Stephen, storing them away in his head. But for what? Future reference? Stephen barely noticed him. Why would Stephen be interested in him when Frank was Frank and Stephen was fucking perfect?

But it had been a year and a half since they had first spoken and this thing, whatever it was, wasn’t getting easier for Frank. It was getting harder. He had never felt this way about anyone before, let along a fucking bloke. So what if he had to admit that to himself that he might be bent? At this rate he thought it might be worth it if it meant being able to fucking talk to Stephen rather than moon over him from a distance.

He spent two weeks trying to build up the resolve to do something about it. Stephen liked footie; he thought that maybe he could ask him to a game. He bought tickets to a West Ham game to put in Stephen’s Secret Santa (he threatened the fat kid who actually had Stephen into switching). Frank thought it was a pretty good plan. If Stephen looked disgusted by the idea of spending time with Frank then he could act all casual, like it meant nothing. When really it meant everything.

But first he had to work out a way to actually talk to him.

He got his chance when Wickers started advertising auditions for some naff Christmas play he was putting on. Frank knew that Stephen was a shoe-in for the lead and if he joined the cast then he would be able to spend time with Stephen, be near him, and maybe even find the balls to talk to him.

The flyer said to prepare an audition piece so Frank went to the library and got out a copy of Romeo and Juliet. He didn’t know that much about romance and shit, but he thought that a Shakespeare play had to be a good start. He wanted to do this properly. For the first time in a long time Frank felt like his actions meant something.

  
He was terrified of making a twat of himself in front of the whole school (in front of Stephen). But something had to change. He couldn’t keep watching Stephen from a distance, trying to fight the terrible ache that swelled in his chest whenever he looked at him. Frank might be bent, but he was not a coward. This play was a prime opportunity and Frank was determined that he wasn’t going to fuck it up. He was in love. And although this still scared the shit out of him he would be damned if he spent his life regretting that he never had the balls to actually do something about it.


End file.
